


my blood is a battlefield (but my hands tremble at the thought of war)

by Ghostigos



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underground Boxing, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-25 12:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18261398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: Leadville has gained quite a rep lately for its infamous underground boxing matches, and it's getting the attention of some higher-ups for all the wrong reasons. While a few politicians have already been arrested for throwing some cash into the ring, there seems to be something else under wraps that nobody can put a finger on.And, sure, Miles isn't exactly the mostqualifiedperson to challenge big business espionage, but he's willing to try.(And flirting with the ex-veteran champion of the boxing world is definitely a pro in the investigation, albeit not a priority.)





	1. curtain jerker

**Author's Note:**

> ( _are we inviting damage just by being bodies_ — "you fool, now that you know your end is near, you always fall for what you desire or what you fear!")
> 
> I probably won't update this AU as much as my [main series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/652871) but chris/miles is something that needs to be reinforced and appreciated as often as possible
> 
> like the main verse of the game, this fic will depict a good number of varied mental illnesses and the societal ableism that comes with it, and ofc the violent, unrestricted nature of underground fighting. more warning will be added as the series (hopefully) continues.
> 
> (characters have also been aged down some in comparison to their game's counterparts; miles is around 23 here, while i picture him as 26-30 in the game)

The brisk chill could be something of a bad omen, if you were to think too hard about it. Or maybe you're still on edge from the fight with Waylon earlier today as you were leaving the apartment. Before you ventured out to the seedy part of town. All your apprehensions are clotting together with no rhyme or reason, it seems; and Waylon doesn't live there anymore, so what does it matter to him?

You follow the directions egged on by helpful passersby; since most aren't exactly slick anymore about the tournament's whereabouts. After the big bust weeks ago, there's not really any reason to hide the illegal fights, or their existence at the least. It makes bank still, since the exposure of the fights had the opposite effect than intended when it was broadcasted — it's more popular than ever. And maybe if police reports hadn't glamorized all the financial rewards that ex-politicians reaped off the wagers, it wouldn't be a big problem.

Nevertheless, it's a story you've been following for months. And if it wants to gain popularity after being outed, then you suppose you could garner the benefits. At least now you don't have to be so discreet when searching for leads.

The match is supposed to take place in the basement of an old sports bar; and since the place has long since down you're unable to trace it on GPS. But, when folk are presented with your bundle of cash, they're a bit warmer when they direct you to the washed-up building. It's seated on the corner of town, next to some old train tracks with businesses sprouted around the dead bar that don't seem any better off.

Perfect place for underground activity.

The front doors are boarded up with old wood and you spot the trespassing warnings glued to windows. That doesn't seem to deter the hooded figures in circling around back, so you follow suit. There's probably a route there.

And, there is. You're able to cross the street with zero issues concerning traffic (this place is isolated enough that you're hardly worried) and dart around the corner. You notice now that there are people swarming towards the valley wedged between the sports bar and another expired restaurant, so there's another route to the back-entrance too.

There's no turning back without looking suspicious or like a pussy. Or both.

Maybe in some alternative timeline you would've listened to Waylon when he yelled at you to _stop looking._ And maybe he _did_ have a point when he said you can't keep sticking your nose in government wrongdoings when you can't cook ramen. You have student debt to pay and your rent is overdue and you're in no position to get jailed.

You'd argue that you've got nothing to lose.

But you say that and Waylon will just huff and say you're not listening. Then he'll shoo you away and lie that he doesn't care if you get arrested or not because you deserve it. You depart on that and he mutters under his breath something about not wanting to be here when it all blows up on you, or whatever.

Which, one, you don't believe. And two, fine then. If no one else will prod at the dark underbelly of corporate activity, then you'll do it yourself.

You head inside through a backdoor that's propped open, having to scoot past a few bodies to shimmy further into the husk of a bar. You're mindful of any stray mouse traps, having entering abandoned structures before, and trail behind some versed visitors of the place; their confident footsteps indicate that this is a common place for boxing.

They're all chattering about who's fighting who, and placing early bets in groups of three or four around the dusty residence. There are a few stray chairs and stools lying about that some rest on, and you find time to sweep away some dirt from a chair and do the same.

There are no names bounced throughout the room that stick to you, since you're unfamiliar with specific names or anything. But, you do capture a few aliases and their combat skills so that, if you're asked, you won't look _too_ novice.

Speaking of, you spot someone walking over to where you're sitting. "Haven't seen you before," the man says, crossing his burly arms. "You new or what?"

His tone doesn't hide his skepticism, so you're quick to pull out the wad of saved-up Lincolns from your carry bag. This tilts his interest slightly as you hold it up.

"Something like that," you answer, smooth and rehearsed.

The man just nods, eyes on the cash. "Well, we're always welcome to newcomers. We're about to start in a few minutes, I can direct you to our handler if you're ready to place any bets."

You adopt contemplation with a furrowed lip, then say, "Not sure who I'm going for yet since I haven't seen anyone in action. Where's your money going?"

The guy snorts. "My best guess? If he shows up, probably Strongfat. That guy's built like a _tank_ , seen him pick up guys twice my size and twist 'em around like it's nothing."

Storing away the cash, you inquire, "'If he shows up'?"

"He's often a no-show when he's called in. We get a lot of those this time of year, since everyone's usually busy." He snaps his thumb behind him to where you can spot a doorway producing steps: the basement, you'd presume. "If you bet on him and he doesn't show, your money gets dished to the losing opponent automatically."

"That sounds kinda slanted," you say, and the man just laughs.

"Welcome to the world of underground boxing, kid."

He gets distracted by someone on the opposite corner of the room, leaving you alone.

When no one's looking, you break out your journal. Just to record a few stray pieces of information raided off the guy and the crowd: it's basic and nothing too exceptionally gritty, but anything will do right now. Names, gambling practices, etcetera.

You snap the booklet shut right as the masses simultaneously begin to collect their bearings and herd towards the basement. You stand, dusting off your butt, and follow behind a supposed couple.

"Excuse me," you interject, tapping their shoulder.

They turn to you, looking exceptionally pissed that you intercepted their conversation.

"Do you know where I can place bets?" You gesture to the bag close-knit to your waist, lifting your jacket some to expose it.

Their tone is short when they point your further downstairs, telling you that some guy with a collared shirt will take your cash. You bite your tongue at their useless insight, but you let them go anyway with a nod of thanks. Now's not the time to get smart in a closeted room full of potentially-dangerous strangers. You'll just gravitate towards where the crowd is headed.

It's musty down here, is your first evaluation; you wrinkle your nose instinctively. While you're accustomed to worn buildings and their rotten, sharp stench, you still deem them unfavorable. Overhead, a few stray lightbulbs flicker to brighten the path so you ensure you don't trip on the steps.

You step down into a gaping area — a storage room at one point, probably; at least, that's what the boxes along the corners elude to. The expired food kept down here must've been tossed a while back because you don't smell anything rotting.

It much more lively down here; people allow their voices to raise in boasts and laughter that rings throughout the basement. Seems like you've entered the second level of the underground world, where shoulders are sagging and they don't keep their mouths closed. Everyone's guards are lowering, which is good for you, at least. Maybe you can poke around without seeming too sketchy.

You slip through larger groups with choppy steps and mumbled apologies; as you wander you gain more insight on who's the handler around here — you'd hate to hand your hard-earnings to some random collared dude. The more helpful folk point you to a corner in the backroom, where a man behind a makeshift desk is collecting another guy's cash. His cheeky smile and encircled shades (in a dark basement, no less) gives you a gut-wrenching urge to punch him. So yeah, that's probably the right guy.

There's no real line either — so either you're really early or everyone is holding their breath until the last few minutes; it'd make sense if it's true about the no-shows. You make your way over since it's no time like the present, you guess.

The handler looks up at you with a gigantic shit-eating grin, all teeth and no sincerity beneath. You can't see his eyes but the Botox stretches his face enough to get a glimpse of wrinkles overcasting his stare beneath the shades. His hair is frizzy and pinned back with a greasy ponytail; and, you spot, he's wearing a pink-collared polo so that might be his trademark.

"Heya," he greets you, and his tone is just as slimy as you'd expected. "Haven't seen your pretty face 'round here, buddy. You new to the wrestling world?"

You just nod along. "I just thought I'd check it out, is all."

"That so," he hums. He's just staring as he leans back into his chair and rests his arms behind his head. "Well, how much of daddy's savings you got on ya', exactly?"

You're already prepared your cash to be accessible to your grasp, so you sweep it out and lay the bundle promptly on the table. There's a small twinge of regret you have in forking it over, but you're playing your role now so there's no point being frugal in the lion's den. This petty hundred could be a pushover, as far as you know.

Even if, the handler whistles, then reaches forward to thumb your money. "Pretty impressive for a rookie. You already got a winner in mind?"

You think for a minute, reflecting on the snippets you gathered from the people around you. There's definitely a common name echoed throughout, so it's best to wade in shallow waters. You ask, "Strongfat? Is he showing up?"

The man gives a pitched huff. "Heh, yeah, he'll be here tonight. He's goin' up against a scrawny kid, there's no way he'd skip out on an easy buck." Then he scoops away your cash to make room for some paperwork bookended near the edge of the 'table'. "Name?"

"Uh..." You falter a moment, since you hadn't planned on actually gambling _real-time_ at this stupid thing. You just accepted that you'd never see that cash again, but now that everything's so organized...well, it's unexpected. "First name's Miles."

He scribbles it down. "Last name?"

"...Rodriguez."

He gives a chortle without looking up. "Sure, alright." He doesn't prod further, just sends you away after writing your 'alias' down on some other papers. There are people behind you clustering up, the closer you get to the awaited match. "See me after the tournament, 'Roddy', and I'll scrape up your winnings. _If_ you win." You think he gives you a shitty excuse for a wink behind his shades, because it sure sounds like it.

You're walking away when you hear, "Oh, and uh...no recording allowed down here, buddy. Privacy reasons and all that."

Well, fuck; your teeth tighten a little. He must've spotted your phone poking out from your coat pockets. You ought to have been more slick — you'd already discarded your camera before coming here, since you'd thought that'd it be harder to excuse its presence at a discreet match. With a phone, you could be more agile.

...Well, you'll just avoid that douchebag's line of sight for the rest of the night. And you're used to concealing your recording devices at the right times, so it won't be anything more than a basic challenge.

The fight commences a short time later, so you don't have to worry too much about huddling awkwardly in the corners. You'd initiate more subtle interviews if you hadn't been sapped of bravery when that asshole noticed your phone; so if _he_ thinks you're shady you definitely don't wanna raise any more alarm bells. Besides, it's only day one of field work — no use asking more questions than necessary. You can be patient.

The crowd forms a handmade circle in the empty middle of the basement, so that's probably the 'ring' for this match. You shuffle towards the front, feigning anticipation as a first-time partaker all the while to excuse bumping into unkindly folk. But, you also leave a body or two blocking a fair portion of your sight, just so you can break out your phone easier if needed; you're definitely taller than average and you'd hate to stick out like a sore thumb directly in the foreground.

However many times you've been barked at by concerned family and friends about your job plans, this adrenaline you gain from field work and discovering new leads is hard to explain but you certainly relish in it. It seeps into your work boots and all the way into your shaky fingers enclosing your phone; you bathe in the excited chatter of the audience like it's your own and you're the square in the middle of the arena. Waylon has argued that you can find that sort of high elsewhere but you really, truly cannot. Walking into danger with a camera and firmfooting is a fine line between justifiable and insane to some, but you walk that line hard. And while you know this is _perfectly_ capable of biting you in the ass later, you can't think of anywhere else you'd rather be.

Might as well put that hyperactive spirit to _some_ good use, you think.

Eventually, someone dispatches from the crowd and raises his arm to gather attention —this must be the referee, even if his clothes don't sport anything but casual weekend wear.

He hypes up the crowd with that sort of 'get ready to rumble' nonsense spouted on television for a minute, and the people scream in excitement. The basement isn't over-populated or anything, you can fit in just fine without stumbling over too many toes, but they sure do make some noise. One person accidentally slaps you on your shoulder as he pumps his fist and doesn't apologize.

What makes you offput is when the referee begins to explain the rules.

“You all already know the drill! No bails, no rounds, no biting. Mono y mono down here! It’s over when someone’s down!”

The crowd murmurs in negotiated unison, but you feel a terrible twinge hooked in your gut upon hearing this. So it really _is_ bare-knuckled down here, then. You’d done minuscule research on the topic and knew that regulations weren’t exactly practiced, but…

You’re not exactly in any mood to see anybody _die._

Worst-case scenario could be great footage, a selfish part of you thinks.

The man announces the first man into the ring and people part like the Red Sea to give him room to appear. You don’t catch the name, just a few syllables; everyone’s riled up again and you can’t make clear heads or tails of any dialogue.

In the mass of sweaty, moving bodies, you break out your camera and turn on the recorder plugged underneath your jacket. The handler isn’t anywhere to be found in your line of sight, so you’ll take your chances.

He’s a skinny guy, is all you have to say about him. He’s shaking out his muscles, glean and stiff that’s highlighted under the ugly fluorescent light. A few scars clothe his lower abdomen in a fresh pink — definitely recent — and his jaw and nose are bent crookedly, possibly a symptom of past fights. You zoom in a little to his features as he bounces in place, energetic and perhaps nervous.

A few jeers and tauntings of the man’s physique make way for cheer as another figurine is inserted into the ring.

God, this man is _huge._

That’s your first thought when you crane your neck to observe him. Bulky and muscular and on the chubby side, with how his arms morph into rolls and muscle, and how his tank top is stretched across his stomach almost too tightly. He’s got a shaven military-cut, and while you can’t see the detailed color of his hair it’s definitely light. There’s no scars of former fights unlike the first man so you’re unsure if his old wounds are hidden or if he’s never been properly riled up. You can catch a glimpse of ink along both his wrists but you don’t know what the pattern entails.

So that must be Strongfat, then.

Unlike his opponent, he doesn’t seem too bothered by either the crowd’s applause, his physical attributions akin to a brick wall seem to mirror his mentalities as well. You can’t interpret his true thoughts because of the gaze darkened beneath the lights, but his face is steel and his mouth is lined. His fists uncertainly flex at his sides.

The smaller man seems to be shouting at the man, but does so with a warbling tone. His bark is worse than his bite, you can tell _that_ much — although, you sympathize; you’re around the same size so you’d probably talk big game if on the spotlight too.

They size each other up for a moment before the whistle is blown; it’s an unfair match, and everyone knows it. They howl for blood as you check your batteries.

Eventually, you hear: “ _Fight!_ ”

It’s all a blur; the small fighter moves quick and evades your camera’s sight for a second as he pummels himself into Strongfat’s stomach. He gives him an ineffective push to get him offguard, then makes a swift kick upward for the groin. It makes Strongfat wince but that’s about all the damage executed.

There’s a few boo’s that ring throughout the basement; you hear someone snarl that a low-blow is a loser’s tactic. You hold your cards to your chest for now, acknowledging your ignorance on the matter. But a vague part of you agrees.

It’s definitely not a thought-out tactic, given how he tries again and Strongfat just grabs his ankle mid-air and whirls his leg around, emitting a screech from the man as he hits the pavement unceremoniously.

He lands on his face. You grimace as he’s egged on by the crowd to stand up and he picks himself up carefully. He spits out a puddle of red drool and it stains the floor; you zoom in on it some. Definitely not anything to write home about, but you have a terrible feeling it’s going to get worse.

Strongfat looms over the man with a mocking disinterest — he’s hardly in any mood to beat the shit out of him, or at least not in any hurry. When the man flails upward to aim at Strongfat’s face you hear a crack of knuckles against cheek. Receptive, the audience winces verbally.

It certainly surprises the larger man; as he’s mentally down the guy goes ham on his face: a common weakness no matter the size. He has to reach over his head to land one on the guy’s ear, then slaps him around some. Still, Strongfat is sluggish in movements; you’re unsure _why,_ since he could easily punch the man down like a troublesome fly.

When the man makes for his neck Strongfat swings his arm out to his opponent’s own throat, and you go, _Oh, okay._

It happens so fast you’ll have to go over the footage to understand what _exactly_ occurs; the people pressed up against your body smudge your vision of the ring but you _can_ hear Strongfat’s irritated grunt as he reaches forward and completely pummels his victim into the floor. You hear the sickening impact of the skull on the concrete, you hear the croaked gasp escape the man in a terrible gulp, and then you hear nothing but excited screaming.

That really was a quick knock-out, then. And all in below a minute.

The referee steps out to examine the man, and you spot more red pooling from an unknown source. It makes you feel queasy the more it flows closer to the outline of people encircling them. He declares a knock-out, and the crowd cheers and high-fives. Apparently it was easy prey tonight, or maybe that was just Strongfat’s warmup.

You store your phone away as more people begin to turn to you in joyous chatter, but you keep your microphone on, just in case.

Strongfat, meanwhile, just gives his knuckles a rub and turns away. He mumbles something in the ref’s direction, and then departs the ring. A break is called for, perhaps?

You shift quickly through in an attempt to get closer to Strongfat, for clarification perhaps, but he’s quickly lost in your field of vision. Strange, since the guy is vertically built like a fucking _tower._

And apparently, that’s not the best he can do. He appears to be a popular figure and you’d hate to miss out on some questions. Even if his answer is ‘fuck off’, there’s always a shot. But it seems like you missed it.

“Hey!” You turn to see an excited man grinning ear-to-ear, advancing towards you. “Leaving so soon, man? We got more on the way!”

Apologetically, you gesture towards the supposed direction of Strongfat’s departure. “I, uh…was just interested in, uh, Strongfat, I guess. Wanted to congratulate him…”

The man laughs, then slaps his hand onto your shoulder to steer you back towards the ring. “Ha! Good luck trying to get to him, man. Not much of a talker. He’s takin’ a break, he’ll probably be back in round two or somethin’.”

You raise a brow. “I can’t say I’m understanding the mechanics of this fight.”

“Eh, that’s what makes it fun, my guy!” You’re pushed towards the front with a friendly pat. “Just be here for the ride and money and everything else will fall through!”

You’re about to comment a lame, “I guess,” but when you look back the guy has dissolved into the crowd.

So much for that lead, then.

There’s still a dark stain on the ground from where the guy was bleeding; he’s hauled off elsewhere but the crowd doesn’t appear to mourn his absence. They’re already riled up from bloodshed, it seems; doesn’t matter who’s hurt as long as they get their kicks.

It makes you feel sour to have to participate, but you try to detach yourself: you’re not here for pleasure purposes. You’re here to get what you need and leave; you don’t have enough sound coverage to prove how inhumane these fights are, but you _know_ they’re bad. You’ve seen the images spread on the articles: busted-up heads and torn muscles and stitches and broken bones. It’s all _here,_ you just need to _find_ it. Strongfat and his victim’s injuries are the tip of the iceberg.

Plus, you realize with a scowl, you’re in dead front. Everyone will spot you if you whip out your phone to record. Whatever the next fight has to offer, you wouldn’t be able to catch any of it.

So it seems like you’re destined to return, wherever the next fight is.

You’re semi-ashamed for feeling so excited about that fact.

The next fight is longer, prolonged by stubborn men who dance around the ring’s lining and can’t make any deadly punches to save their skin. You learn then that there’s no timer for these things, and there are no _truces_ either. It’s almost relieving when one guy eventually lands a blow to the other guy’s face and has him withering to the floor in pain.

It’s not a huge mess, not like Strongfat’s was, and some appear disappointed by this. Apparently this is an uneventful night.

You slip out a while later, when the upcoming fighters take longer to prepare. You do return to the handler, and you’re surprised when you’re rewarded a large sum of cash. _Definitely_ more than what you bet on.

The shock must be visible because the guy gives you a chuckle. “Didn’t expect that much, huh buddy?”

You shake your head. “I…no, I didn’t. How…how does that work? What does the winner get, then??”

The handler mimes a zipper stretched across his lips. “Everyone likes sausage but no one likes to know how it’s made. Trust me, the winner gets bank. Everyone’s happy, you gonna question that?”

The avoidance on your question rekindles that inkling of doubt you’ve been carrying all night. It’s not like it’s a secret that politicians have their eyes on the underground boxing industry, but…if this is tax dollars you’re holding, you think you’re gonna be sick.

You’re nowhere close to being an accountant, but you have your gut-instinct and basic smarts to know that this _isn’t_ adding up at all.

Regardless, you pocket your winnings and head up the stairs, back home. You’ve already gotten your feet wet, so you’ll be coming back. You hear whispers of the next tournament being held in an old parking lot, so that’s your next step.

You’ll take what you can get for now.

-

The back-alley is the closest direct route to the bus station, since you don’t feel comfortable leaving the way you came. And Waylon is definitely not gonna offer you a ride right now. So you slip out the backdoor and breathe in the crisp air; something alleviates in your chest and you realize that your body is so _tense_. The air is cool and does wonders to your pounding lungs.

Alright, so. Aced step one of infiltration. Got money. Got footage. Great.

You’ll regroup at home. Now that Waylon is off chasing Lisa he’ll be absent and you’ll be spared from his incessant nagging of your whereabouts. Thank god, you can’t handle that right now.

You head to your right, into the alleyway. It’s desolate and clustered with untouched garbage bags that emit a spoiled stench. There are some radiators above that hum shakily. No silhouettes of anyone, though; it’s pretty early to be dispatching from the bar anyways.

Walking down the alley, you feel a dripping sense of unnerve, but you blame that on the ominous atmosphere.

“He’s leaving early.”

The voice is tame and deep, masculine; you whirl around to find the unknown but all you see is heaping piles of junk.

“It seems like he didn’t want to stick around.”

Oh, so there’s two of them now? Heartbeat in your throat you do a full 360 but still find no one; it’s maddening and you clutch your bag tighter. You keep walking.

“He looks nervous.”

“Like he has something to hide.”

The voices are neutral, at most vaguely amused. They hold no threat but you find yourself sprinting towards the end of the alley now, with unrestrained anxiety pulsating through your blood.

“Should we stop him?”

“It would be rude.”

“Suppose we give him a running start, then.”

“There’s an idea.”

You round the corner and the voices are safely behind you now — you allow yourself a quick breath since your chest is searing, but then pick up the pace again. The abstract trepidation melts into a somber jog, but your paranoia is now back on the market.

Maybe they were grunts reinforced by the handler or something, to ensure you didn’t record anything. Or maybe it was a cruel joke. You doubt your imagination is wild enough to manifest two different voices echoing along an empty alley, so you’ll definitely keep an eye out next time. Maybe pull out pepper spray next time.

The bus stop comes into view but you don’t calm down until you’re safely aboard and headed home, gazing out the window with your phone pressed close to your heart.

-

You plug the key into your apartment’s door whilst pretending you’re not doing double-takes every to seconds. There weren’t any looming figures or cars that followed you or anything, but that close encounter with whoever-the-fuck really left you on edge; it’d be foolish to get caught on stage one of your mission.

When you walk inside, you lock the door swiftly behind you. You reason with yourself that you’re on the third floor and the steps outside are loud and clunky whenever someone walks up it, and you heard no footsteps entailing you.

There’s another issue entirely at hand, when you don’t recall having left the lights on.

Upon this thought surfacing, a grunt emits from your spare room down the hall. Although surprising, it’s familiar in tone; a crash follows suit and that’s when the string of curses that follow confirm your suspicions.

Irritation gets your feet moving, on the premise that he might’ve knocked over something important. You barge into the room unannounced — it’s _your_ home, after all.

Waylon yelps in alarm when you open the door; hes hunched over a suitcase on the carpet, hastily shoving fuck all into it. His remaining items from around the house, probably.

God, couldn’t he have done this sooner?

You frown, leaning against the doorframe. “Putting that spare key to use, I see.”

Your friend looks more guilt-ridden over being caught than anything else. He shuffles to stand on his feet, but trips a little due to his bad leg. Instinctively you reach out to assist, but Waylon is able to hobble up in a sloppy motion. He straightens his spine with another murmured curse.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes downcast.

You just hold your breath for the petty explanation he has to provide.

It comes when Waylon notices your disdain, and his own gaze hardens. “I wanted to finish my packing while you were out. There. That better?”

“Oh yeah, much better.” You haul your ass off the door to pick up one of Park’s shirts on the ground. Only to pommel it into his chest with a violent surge. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out or anything.”

You back out of the room and head into the kitchen; you hear an exasperated huff from behind, followed by an angry, “You’re being so intolerable about this!”

The cereal is still out on the counter, so you pour yourself a measly bowl and rummage the fridge for milk. Waylon stomps out of his ex-room to give you a glare that simmers into the back of your head. God, and you thought your _mom’s_ looks could kill.

“Can’t you just admit that you’re jealous so we can move on, please?” Waylon snaps. It’s enough to have you slam the refrigerator door, once you’ve retrieved your nearly-empty milk carton. The glare you give him makes him shrivel a little.

“Jealous of _what,_ Waylon? Jealous of you finally having someone else to kiss up to? You wish.”

“I didn’t say that—”

“How about _you_ just admit that you’re being a gigantic asshole toward my endeavors, instead of painting _me_ out to be the bad guy like always?” You pour the milk into the bowl and take a bitter crunch of the cereal. With food still in your mouth, you add: “It’s always ‘boo hoo poor Waylon’ in this house, why not ‘boo hoo poor Miles' for once? Huh?”

Waylon rolls his eyes and plants his hands onto his hips with a huff. “You’re being so childish. So all of a sudden me trying to convince you to _not_ get your ass in trouble calls for a pity party?”

You just chew on your food a minute longer. He thinks he’s won the argument.

His hackles lower a tad when he runs a hand along his tired features, eventually resting on his hair. “Miles, just _please_ be considerate right now, okay? There’s a lot going on and I can’t have you wading into any of your outlandish theories again—”

You huff icily. “Maybe if you stopped moving mountains for every fucking person you have a crush on—”

“Lisa is _different_!” he protests. “And don’t try to change the subject on this, I _know_ you’re always on this whole conspiracy or whatever—”

“Actual government scandal.”

“This isn’t college anymore, dude! You could get into some bad trouble with the cops on this one, and let me guess—” In the process of dispatching your bags and jacket, you threw your phone onto the counter right where Waylon can grab it. He snatches it up before you can rectify the mistake, despite your verbal protest.

He holds it up with a displeased glare. “You’ve got ‘incriminating evidence’ on here, don’t you? You went to that event even though I told you _not_ to go?”

“God! Alright, _Mom!_ ” You lurch forward but Waylon holds it out of reach still. “Go pack up your shit and leave me the hell alone!”

“No,” Waylon says, “not until you promise not to go back!”

“Fuck you!”

He makes it like he’s about to fling your phone across the room, but you nab it away just in time.

You return to your soggy cereal after angrily stuffing the phone back into your pocket, pulling the bag closer to your side in case Waylon gets smart. And he thinks _you’re_ the childish one here?

Can’t he just go carry around Lisa’s bags or something like the disaster romantic he is?

While you brood in a choppy quiet, Waylon is the first to give a sigh. You look up and spot that his eyes are softer and perhaps a little sad. Pitiful, really.

“You’re gonna get in trouble, Miles,” he says. “And I’m not always going to bail you out.”

“You’re not my babysitter,” you snap. “So stop acting like it. This is _big_ Way, this is my first big break, and you’re acting like I’m being immature in handling it. I _know_ what I’m doing.”

He stalls, opens his mouth, closes it. Gives you a hard stare before eventually turning back and heading to his room. Probably to finish packing. He might as well have just said what as on his mind because what he _didn’t_ say hangs in the air like a dark cloud.

You finish up and clean out the bowl, then leave it in the sink. Once you’re done Waylon approaches with his bag slung over his shoulder. You both give each other a long look.

“So,” you say.

“So.”

“Tell Lisa I said hi.”

“I will.”

Neither of you budge.

“Don’t kill yourself while I’m gone,” Waylon finally murmurs.

You shrug. “No promises.”

Once again he looks like he’s holding himself back — probably refraining from saying anything nasty. The weight of his luggage seems daunting for his leg but he pulls through enough to make it to the door without your assistance.

He turns around, then, and places something into your palm. His spare key.

He shuts the door behind him. You lock it.

…Fine, then. No one said journalism was easy. And if you have no active supporters on the sidelines, that wasn’t in the job description either. And you of all people are familiar with backup plans; this is nothing more than an inconvenience, at best. It doesn’t hinder your research.

You already have a plan, and you’re well on your way to executing it.


	2. highspot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a brief discussion of opposing religious backgrounds (Judaism v. Catholicism specifically) and butting heads about it in household practices; I figured it'd be safer to put this as a warning jic.

Okay, so, to recap:

Democrat governor of Colorado Wesley Knight was arrested six months prior to the big wrestling bust, after records showed his illegal gambling underhand. Although not directly related at first, he was quickly discovered to have a dog in the fight (literally) to more than sports gambling. This quickly lead to a member of the state’s senate, Henry Calborough, to be found wading in similar waters with gambling. Then fellow senate Timothy Scott. Then Phil McCormick. Wesley’s secretary Pam Wyatt spoke up about these allegations later on, saying she’s known this has been happening for years, to the point where her own husband bet on the fights after catching wind.

It all directed back to Leadville not long after, with the string of allegations eventually forming a pattern to the town. Many gamblers were former employees of a non-profit corporation, Murkoff Corp, so some spotted an invisible line tying it together to this organization. Although it’s unsure of _how_ and _why_ so many workers were drawn to the ring, it was certainly a breeding spot after the news got wind of the—

Ugh. Old news, really. Your crime board is a mess and looking at it is making your head spin.

Waylon hated having to walk past it in the hallway; you’d argued that it helped you think, and he argued that he paid a good portion of your rent and had a say in the matter. Eventually he won and you had to move it all into your room, where it resides parallel to your bed. It took a whole day to take it down and tack it all back up again, so you're rather fond of the effort put into its presence, even with Waylon's complaints.

News articles and sticky notes of politicians’ names litter the thing, with a red string and push pins and pure luck holds it all together. It leads to one name, encircled multiple times in dark red marker. In the middle of the board: “MURKOFF.”

In truth, you don’t understand Murkoff’s business in the ring. From what you found online you couldn’t really find much about the organization itself: their website is all fluff about how they’re helping the residences of Colorado and how they’re planning to extend their works into other states, blah blah blah. Charity work, it seems, but the specifics are lost on you.

Definitely suspicious, without a doubt. But why it keeps popping up in your research is like trying to swallow a pill as you roll it along your inner mouth, you don't know.

But, you suppose you can ask more questions the more you submerge yourself into the wrestling world.

Speaking of, there _is_ a match tomorrow night, at the parking lot in question. There’s not really any forums on the next meetups of the fight, but from what you could pick up from conversations at the first match, there’s definitely multiple tournaments occurring all at once. Like it’s own league or something. But you have to trust what you heard: 8:00 PM, on the second level of the lot. It’s old and abandoned and weeds are sprouting along the concrete so there’s not really a chance of intruders. It’s right off the exit you used to take at your old publishing job so you’re well-aware of its address.

First, though, you’ll need better recording equipment. Your old ones are shit and from what you were able to gather, it only focused on the screaming crowd. Not like there was much _to_ pick up, but these things have been with you since junior year of college and they’re well on their way to the garbage anyways. You’re about to be braver this time around at the fight, and you’ll be interrogating some; you can’t afford for the mike to burst mid-sentence.

Luckily, you have someone in mind, and you won’t even have to butter up any smooth talk on them.

With a stretch, you put on some clothes and gather your busted gear into your bag, then grab a bar from the kitchen and head out. 

Her shift doesn’t start until noon, so you can probably catch her in time.

-

And you do.

You knock on the door slowly at first, which quickly descends into fervid pounds that elicit a cranky response from inside.

“I’m coming, I’m coming! Yeesh…”

Blake opens the door and doesn’t appear surprised to see you on the stoop. He sighs. “Miles, what is it this time?”

“Heya Blake,” you greet him with a quick wave of your fingers. “I need you to do me a solid.”

“Another one?” he asks, but makes room for you to squeeze inside. It’s always a pleasure to step into their house rather than your own, since Blake is a clean-freak so there’s no clothes lying around or anything. You smell the faint whiff of incense burning somewhere: cinnamon this month, maybe.

You huff your bag onto the couch and begin to rummage through it. Blake says from behind you, “This is the fourth solid you’ve asked for this month, man. I’m really not in the mood for this right now—”

“Dude, c’mon, I really need it this time.” To emphasize, you find your busted mike and hold it up for him to inspect. “I have an investigation tonight and my audio is ass. I just need to borrow your mikes real quick. Promise I’ll give ‘em back.”

Blake steps forward, gingerly taking the device into his hands and looking at it with narrowed brows. He tosses it around in his hand some, adjusting his glasses so he can get a proper gander.

Eventually he tosses them back to you. “I dunno, man. Last time you ‘borrowed’ something you didn’t give it back for at least a month.”

“Oh my god, are you still mad about your band shirt?” you roll your eyes. “I gave it back, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, with blood splatters on the front!” Blake snaps, exasperated. “Miles, look, I know you’re really into this new lead you’ve got, but I really can’t spend money on new equipment if you break anything.”

“I’m not gonna break anything!” you protest. “Scout’s honor, I swear! It’ll just be for tonight—”

“So was the shirt.”

“Rage Against the Machine is a deadbeat band anyway, Blake! I did that tee a favor!”

Blake’s eyes widen in vivacious offense. “Oh, you did _not_ just—”

“Blake? Is that Miles?”

You both turn to the new voice wading from upstairs. Arriving conveniently to save your ass, like always. You have to suppress a smug sort of grin.

Said heavensent angel eventually trails down the steps, with a brush combing out her soaked hair: she must’ve just taken a shower. Her eyes light up when she spots you, and you nod back with a small smile.

“Hey Lynn.”

She trots over, brush discarded on a shelf, to sweep you into a hug. Her wet hair tickles your nose some, but you return the warm gesture with one arm.

Lynn disbands from your clutches long enough to give her fiancé a bemused cock of her brow, her lips teasing a half-smile. “What’s he on about this time?” she asks Blake.

He just heaves a sigh, looking like he’s suddenly been ganged up on. “Miles came over to ask if he could borrow some microphones for his latest bust.”

“Oh, did he?” She turns back to you, looking more amused than accusatory; it lightens your chest some. “Are your mikes bad or something?”

You shrug to their tangled placement on the couch. “Yeah, they’re getting really bad, I didn’t want them to give out while mid-interview or anything.”

Lynn nods. “Yeah, that’s fair. I remember you having them for a long time.” She walks over to Blake and gives him a small peck on the cheek. “I don’t see why we can’t let him use them. He’ll give them back, right?”

Flushed like a middle-schooler from the kiss, Blake looks down to his feet with his hands clumsily finding his pockets. “I mean…” he mumbles at first, but Lynn stops him.

“C’mon hon, reporters help reporters, right?”

“I’m a _cameraman_ , Lynn. Not a journalist.”

“They fall under the same umbrella, Blake,” she sniffs. “Could you go get the microphones from your room please, so I can show Miles how to use them?”

He delays a moment longer, swaying on his feet. With onlooking smugness, you hear him say, “Sure, honey,” and takes to upstairs to retrieve said devices.

God, you’re so lucky to have a badass best friend like her. And her whipped puppy excuse for a future husband.

Lynn trades you a warm smile, then gestures to the couch. You oblige and sit down, crossing your legs adjacent to her thighs in the process. From upstairs, Blake gives an irritated curse as he fumbles through his equipment.

Despite yourself, you do manage a small frown. “Is he doing okay?”

Lynn’s stature droops a little at the thought, giving a gusty sigh. “It’s been hard. The wedding’s not for a few more months but his grandparents are coming up later this week to talk about it, and…well, you know how they are.”

You do, in pieces that Blake and Lynn provide about them. You know that Blake was raised by his grandparents after his parent’s passing, and Lynn told you once that they’re strictly orthodox Jewish, contrasting heavily Blake’s Catholic upbringing. Although you can’t understand the specifics of Blake’s gene pool, you know they’re not happy about Lynn being Catholic herself (agnostic on a good day, she told you with a wink) and that Blake is a middle-ground for his family’s religious conflict.

It’s times like these where you really want to sit them both down and just get a better understanding of their life at the school, what happened there…since they both avoid your questions like the plague. But Lynn has set boundaries, and she respects your own: it’s just be rude to knock mercilessly on the glass Blake has locked his traumas behind, even when you think it’d be doing him a favor too.

Regardless.

Dampened with this thought, Lynn is quick to shake you out of it with an unsteady grin, her eyes soft when she pats on your knee in assurance. “Don’t get worked up about it, Miles. We’ll be fine. I’m just fine with accommodating to whatever they say about the wedding’s process as long as I have their blessing.”

“Still sucks that you have to worry about it, though.”

She nods. “Yeah, it is. But I’m really fine with their requirements, and it’s not like I’ll fight them too hard about practicing any rituals that _aren’t_ Catholic. Burned that bridge years ago and I don’t plan on coming back to it.”

Before you get too far into the topic, Lynn redirects her gaze towards your mess of recording equipment strewn on the couch beside you. She reaches over to inspect it like her fiancé did, with a lighter expression than he’d carried during the act.

Her eyes crinkle when she says, “So tell me, how’s your latest research into the dark underbelly of wrestling coming along?”

“Going alright, I think,” you shrug. “I was able to go to a match a while back so I’ll be heading to one later tonight. That’s why I came over.”

“Ah,” Lynn says, carefully handing you the instruments back. “Did you make any bets?”

“I did. God, Lynn, they’re _loaded._ ” You settle back a little so you can make excited hand gestures without hitting her. “I mean, I put like, a measly hundred into the basket and I came out with _three-hundred bucks._ I counted! And _everyone_ bet on the same dude so everyone’s pockets were full by the end of the match, it was _insane._ ”

“Oh, dang.” Lynn perks a brow, leaning back to rest her chin atop her hand. Her interest sparks an excited, antsy feeling in your gut as you chat on about Strongfat and the handler, and your suspicions on the politician’s financial hand in the matter, because how does that system even work without crumbling apart on the first week?

You talk until your reservoir of information runs dry, and you slap your hands back onto your knees and lean forward, as though to tell her a secret. “This is bigger than I thought it was, Lynn. I thought that some of the things I read about would be snuffed out the more the public knew about it, but….I was wrong, there’s something _big_ going on and I can’t put my finger on it!”

Attentive as ever, Lynn nods along. Her eyes are clouded with thought. “Yeah, you’re right. That all sounds super fishy. Maybe it has something to do with that big company you mentioned. Murkoff? They sound weird.”

“Oh, definitely. That can’t be a coincidence that so many ex-employees are aware of the matches. Not only that, but they say they’re _scared_ to talk about it!” You give an upraised expression and a huff. “Makes you think about what they’re so scared of, y’know? And what they _haven’t_ been able to tell us.”

“Yeah, well,” she reaches forward to give you another reassuring bouts of pats, “Whatever it is, I’m sure you can take it down. Just be careful and all, of course. Are you going alone tonight?”

You nod, feeling a bit guilty when you hear her reproachful tone. “Yeah, Waylon…he’s not coming.” Then you perk up. “Unless you’d like to come.”

The chuckle she gives answers your question long before she shakes her head; something sour makes your shoulder droop forward, your mouth wilting away your excited grin.

“Sorry, Miles, you know I would. I miss our miniature investigations and all, but…” She points up towards the stairs, where Blake is still rummaging around their bedroom. “There’s a lot happening. Blake is already so high-strung about his grandparents' visiting, I’d hate to worry him any more.”

A coil of bitterness is quick to wrap around your chest and give a squeeze. So stupid of you to believe you’d be anything but alone, after all this. Yeah, Lynn is busy, and Waylon is self-employed on chasing after Lisa…but, some reinforcements outside of your expired pepper spray would be _nice._ However unrealistic.

You’re about to comment something ugly when Lynn reaches forward to give you a hug, a gesture you lean into on instinct.

“Be careful out there, nerd,” she murmurs with a smile evident in her tone. “Bring your pepper spray and all that. And if you’re in a pinch I’ll force Blake to have us go pick you up.”

The acidity left in your guts dissipates at her kind words. You say softly, “Thanks Lynn.”

“Of course.” Giving you a final squeeze, Lynn sits back and calls up the stairs, “Blake? Did you find it?”

A few more scuffles, then: “Uh, yeah! Gimme one second!” Another muttered curse ripples down the steps, and Lynn just holds back an amused giggle. Her eyes are soft, and full of love, and you don’t think you’ll ever understand it but Blake has your seal of approval.

He trods downstairs eventually, and begrudgingly shows you what to press and where. Lynn looks on with a few stray comments here and there, pointing out which channel to use for the microphone. Grateful, you pack away the devices and give them both an appreciative thanks.

Blake just sniffs and reminds you to give it back by tomorrow. Lynn gives you a thumbs-up and a wink.

-

“Well, look at that! Roddy’s back in the ring,” the handler greets you heartily, reaching forward to slap his grimy hands into your own and give a firm shake. At least his words helped you remember your fake aliases, since you’d forgotten it on the ride over.

“Nice to see ya’ again, buddy,” he chirps; his shades are discarded so you see all the glimmering smug in his blue pupils, all the wrinkles stretched over his eyebags with a shiny layer of plastic surgery. He really does look as fake as he sounds. “I see easy money is to your liking, eh? Gain a new perspective on illegal boxing?”

So it _is_ considered illegal here; he says it like it’s a proud title, a respective medal earned. So they’re really not discreet about it, then; everyone is well aware that they’re committing a crime.

It doesn’t sit well with you. Just like everything else here.

But you answer as smoothly as possible, “Yeah. Guess people call gambling an addiction for a reason.”

The man just snarks. “Glad to hear. So, where’s your money goin’ tonight?”

“Um…” you shuffle a little, as you glance around. The cold air blowing throughout the empty concrete walls has everyone huddling closer together. There’s no faux circle yet but there are a few cars blocking the wind some, so you’ll assume those are the boundaries set on where the match will be. Probably the ‘staff’s cars or something, which elicits even _more_ questions.

You don’t spot any wrestlers from last time melded into the crowd, or any familiar faces, really. Everyone is cloaked with extra layers because of the chill so you feel more isolated than beforehand. There’s no firm foot you can place since you don’t know anyone.

“I don’t…” you turn back to the handler, awaiting expectantly; he’s leaning up against some car’s hood like the douche he is. “I don’t know who’s fighting tonight.”

He shrugs, seeming unbothered. “Eh, we’ll probably get a lot of no-shows anyway tonight, too many coldblooded pussies.”

Your microphone has been on this entire time, snuggled underneath your coat; if someone were to give you a closer look they might spot the head of the device poking out of your jacket’s collar, and you resist the urge to itch it away from your ear. Since the handler has provided a foothold into inquiring territory, you decide to take the opportunity and run with it.

You ask, feigning idle chatter, “So, how many wrestlers do you guys have on a daily basis?”

He scoffs a little. “You sure do ask a lotta questions, kid. Why would I spill everything onto the table for you, answer me that.”

So it’s like that, then. You reply, “Well, I’d like to know a little bit about who’s here so I can make the right choice on betting, is all. I think it’s fine for the buyer to beware.”

“Maybe so,” the man drawls. He lets his response linger in the air a moment, where you can hear excited chatter from behind. The match is probably going to start in a few.

Finally, he allows himself to loosen with a hearty chuckle. “Hah, well, you sold me. If you’re askin’ how many regulars we get in a match, it’s kinda the same people every time.”

You perk up. Finally, you’re getting somewhere!

“Oh, so Strongfat and the other guys…?”

“'Strongfat’, Gluskin, uhhh…creepy Shining Twins…” He lists from off the top of his head with his fingers. “Manera…yeah, we’re basically our own WWE down here. You’ll have to ask higher-ups if you wanna get in on the action. S’not exactly a free-for-all or anything.”

“Higher-ups? So what do you qualify as, then?”

Another chortle, derived of humor. “I’m just the good ol’ handler Rick. If you think I’d be one of these lunatics’ coaches you’re, ah, insane. For lack of better terms.”

Higher-ups, coaches….jesus, this really _is_ organized chaos. Also his sobriquet of ‘lunatics’ doesn’t simmer well, making you bite back a particular Face about it.

“...Hopefully you’re not thinking of joining in, buddy, if that’s what that look you’re givin’ me is putting out,” the man— or, Rick, you guess — says. “As your friend, I’m telling you right now that we won’t be covering for funeral costs, and I doubt anyone here wants to see snuff film-esque gore on the concrete.”

You crinkle your nose a little, in offense.

“But anyway!” Rick chirps. He hauls himself off the car he’s perched on and swings over to his makeshift table — an _actual_ table this time, it seems, stacked with papers and baskets and other items to store his files away in. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be more than happy to take your bets.”

…The more you’ve learned tonight, the more you really don’t want to put your earnings in the greasy hands of this jackass. Something about this whole process is definitely wrong, and it’s unsettling that you can’t put a precise finger on the ‘how’s and ‘why’s. College definitely kicked your ass on the way out and the luscious benefits of gambling here _are_ tempting, but…

You need to dig deeper without getting distracted by the glamour of the price tag.

So, you tighten your hold on the bag, swiveling it away from Rick’s sight. You murmur, “I think I’ll just watch tonight.”

Rick’s face curls a little, his smile falling transparent, and it makes you shift on your feet. You’re close to asking if that’s alright before he brushes your worries away with a semi-amicable chuckle. “If you say so. Guess we all gotta get our kicks somewhere, eh?

“Which!” You’re turning away before he adds on, “suits tonight’s kickboxer theme. Stay out of the front row, by the way, if you wanna keep your teeth.”

When he abruptly shifts to interact with another civilian holding out cash, the deficiency of laughter to conclude his statement makes you think that he probably wasn’t kidding. And based on what you’ve seen on surface level, you think you’ll risk better camera angles and saunter towards the middle area of the crowd.

-

You leave in hurried steps with vomit burning the back of your throat.

So, unrestrained kickboxing. Not your thing, at all.

Three broken teeth in the first match. A loud and wet crack of a ribcage from a well-timed aim. Bloody mouths that coil into purple eyes, screaming ecstatically when a kick registers a pained wail from their opponent.

There was one guy in particular — black undercut, raw pink scars along his cheekbones, and a pair of blue eyes that could make any person shrink under their icy glare — that was so stoic as he twisted his heel into his fallen opponent, scowling at the crunch his actions wrought…you had to turn away as the guy tapped out; the referee confirmed his wrist was broken.

The victor wasn’t as bulky as Strongfat, but he was still big; plus, his relaxed yet meditative expression throughout the combat really stuck a bad chord with you. Methodical in movements, but so cruel when he swung a brutal blow. Although breathing hard afterwards, and strands of his hair clung to his forehead and nose, he merely wiped his battered nose and sauntered away.

What is it with these guys being so cool throughout all this?

Tolerance, logic decides. Growing numb to the pain inflicted on others and on themselves.

It’s sick. Nothing could’ve prepared you for it. But you stayed until the end to compensate for lost time at the bar fight, at the expense of your stomach.

Thank god you didn’t bet on anybody; you’re really not in a mood to wait in line to collect potentially-stolen cash.

As you descend down the lot, your footsteps heightened by the empty, concrete space, you consider taking up Lynn’s offer. You really don’t feel like riding the bus home, but…if either Lynn or Blake saw your current condition, you wouldn’t want them to ask questions. You’re well aware that you’re probably sickly-pale and on the verge of throwing up — which is something you’d rather do on a public bus anyway, rather than in Blake’s car.

So you just decide to keep going, but you keep your phone out just in case. You realize you kept your microphone on and reach to turn it off.

“We gave him a chance.”

“That we did.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Of all the times to mess with you, they decide _now?!_

In a frenzied haze you check your surroundings: you’ve got one more floor to cover before you’re in the home stretch, but the place is starkly empty. All you hear is the buzzing of the flickering lights overhead, and if you strain your ears there’s ambient talk from upstairs, post-match.

Your heart thinks you’re running a fucking marathon, from all this sudden stress.

“I’d say we were more than fair.”

“Did you see what he was doing?”

“He had his phone out.”

_Shit._

You’re sprinting now; the parking lot offers no grace in alleviating the two’s echoes. You can’t identify where they’re coming from. You fumble for the pepper spray in your bag.

“It’s rude to record people without their permission.”

“Do you think he knows that?”

“We should teach him.”

“You first.”

“Naturally.”

_Around the corner, just dart around the corner and you’ll be on the ground floor—_

The shriek erupts from your lungs faster than you can fully process the man in front of you. His mug shows crooked teeth and a large nose, and his gnarled hands reach for your chest.

Your feet work better than your brain; you nearly bust your ass on the pavement as you do a full 360-spin and dart upstairs. Just to get somewhere, _anywhere_ away from that god-awful face.

There’s a harsh tug on your collar, pummeling your shirt into your throat and you gasp, watch the world spin around you as you’re tossed to the floor. Tailbone aching at the impact, you try to stand up with frantic gasps escaping your chest. Blake's microphone equipment has been shoved out of your hold, so you reach forward to get it and pray to every god above that it's not broken from the impact.

If it wasn't broken before it's broken now, when a boot steps out and the mic busts underfoot with a loud snap.

There’s two of them. There’s _two of them_ and somehow they’ve been able to corner you in this section of the lot, abandoned and lonely where no one will be able to come quick enough if they try anything—

Out of pure self-preservation, you manage a pitiful, “Please.”

The first one kneels down, inspects you a moment — you on all fours, peevishly shoving your bag away from his sight and trying to locate your spray, attempting a glance-over at your captors — and then you see his fist curl a moment before the smack erupts onto your cheek.

There’s a brief lag between the pained sound from your lips and the sparkling pain on your face begins to grow hot and numb; you’re on the floor with your arms twisting to cover your head, in case he decides to stomp you beneath his boot heel.

“Grab the bag,” you hear one say.

There’s a grunt, and then you’re being hoisted back up by your straps. You scream “No!” but it’s unheard, and the second one picks you up like you’re nothing, before unceremoniously ripping the bag away, breaking the strap with a single tug and the swift pain erupts from your ribcage when he does so.

You’re thrown back down and the breath falls out of your lungs; survival mode kicks in and you think _Fuck this, fuck everything_ in a frenzied mantra as you scrape yourself up, only to have a boot press you back down. You flail momentarily under the weight; he applies more pressure to your stomach to keep you pinned.

You gasp out, “Please don’t kill me.”

Neither respond. They paw through your belongings some before eventually just turning the bag upside down, and everything falls beside you with loud clatters. Your journal explodes into stray papers that float gently down to your feet, where you attempt to kick them to your side but the first twin stops you with more weight being added to your torso. You’re scared to hear something crack like the kickboxers' bones and you become a deer in headlights.

The second one tosses your empty bag away and kneels down; he picks up your phone, and your heart rate is overtaxed and uneven as they both simultaneously glare down at you.

“Innocent men don’t squirm,” your captor says.

“You think he’s learned his lesson yet?”

“No.” The man stands, to tower over you like his brother(???) and you want to wipe that neutral mug off his misshapen stupid face— “Break his ribs. I’ll break his feet.”

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK._

Without even a nod of acknowledgement, the man lifts his boot and aims it upwards, to where you’ve pitifully curled to your side in an effort to soften his impending blow.

_This is going to REALLY hurt._

You prepare yourself as the boot hovers over your body a moment, and then—

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?”

Oh god, there’s _three_ of them???

The crunch of your ribs never comes, surprising you. You manage to look up and, with slanted vision, you see the two peek over to someone out of your sight. It was a harsh, deep bark that cut through your anxious breathing and the men’s quiet demeanor like a hot knife.

They don’t answer, but they also don’t continue their rampage either. You hear the man yell again, “I _said,_ what are you two doing? You better not be mugging a homeless guy again, I swear—”

“We aren’t,” the man above you answers; he sounds impatient, but yet…trodden. Like he’s about to be chewed out by a higher figure.

You’d think it funny if your head was spinning, and your bones weren't sore from being struck on the cement.

Still, you don’t attempt to move, just in case.

“Who is that?” The steps advance towards you and you hear the men shuffle backwards. They’re still surrounding you but you feel naked and exposed to this third eye of your suffering. Shame and pain lingers and you fight the urge to whimper.

“I’ve never seen him before,” the man says, his voice booming right above your position. Then he addresses the men again: “What did he do to deserve this? He looks like he’s about to start bawling!”

_Is it that obvious?_

“He’s a Peeping Tom,” one man says— now uncertain in his tone, defensive almost.

“We were just making sure he knew his place,” the other agrees.

“And you’ve done that,” the third sighs, exasperated now. “Whatever he did, I doubt he’ll be coming back anytime soon.”

Spite begs to differ, but you elect to remain silent and frozen in place. The concrete’s coolness is like an ice bag for your sore cheek, maybe.

The men are quiet a bit longer, before the man snaps, “Now get the fuck out of here before you cause any other trouble. I’ll deal with this guy from here.”

You don’t hear them leaving for another minute but you can practically feel their fighting spirits diminish. They’re silent as they trod upwards, back to the selected location of the fight.

“Get up,” you hear. It’s an order.

With lead in your muscles, you do so, slowly. Your first act is removing your arms away from your face to view your rescuer.

…He’s bigger up front, is your first thought, outside of your heart leaping into your jugular. You can understand the trembling fear of his unlucky opponent when they measured up his size properly in the ring.

The ink you first noticed encircling his wrists, are chains.

Strongfat lets you pull yourself up, giving you no assistance meanwhile. With a few steady breaths, you’re able to get on your knees and provide a small breather.

Then, as if synchronically prompted, you both dart glances over to your scattered belongings.

Adrenaline is quick to get you into high-gear again. Bruises be damned, you run over to your items and stuff them into your bag, fearing the hand that could come swooping down to your neck and have you slapped backwards.

It doesn’t come. You’re able to snatch up your phone (its screen is cracked but you’re so fucking grateful you don’t _care_ ) and nab Blake's broken mike off the floor and hug the bundle of stray items to your chest. As you collect yourself in preparation to sprint, you cast a stray glance towards Strongfat. He’s standing, observing you, his eyes narrow but guarded. He’s not looking at you in particular.

You’re not able to identify the emotion he carries on his stiffened shoulders before you sprint back down to ground zero of the lot. You never look back, nor do you attempt to look back, and you don’t allow yourself the luxury of skidding to a relaxed pace until you’re at the stop.

It’s later when your blood is able to circulate through your body normally again, as you collapse onto your couch with tightened chest and legs, that you realize Strongfat’s demeanor expressed fury. And that his eyes were all on your phone.


End file.
